Chapter 18: The Melee Plan
Arthur gathered the Battanian Rangers in the inn's backyard before sunset. The space was not ideal, but it was large enough for men to stand in formation without terrifying the horses or making the innkeeper faint over broken property. The soldiers came quickly, some still smelling of road dust and sweat, others with market food in hand. They quieted when Arthur stepped onto the low stone platform near the stable wall.
"We will enter the tournament," he said.
The courtyard shifted at once. Men looked at one another, surprise turning quickly into excitement. A royal tournament in King's Landing was not a roadside skirmish or a bandit hunt in the mountains. It was a stage watched by knights, lords, merchants, gamblers, spies, and parasites dressed as friends. It was dangerous. It was also exactly what they needed.
"All Old Wolf Warriors and Young Wolf Warriors will register for the archery competition," Arthur continued. "That is our advantage, and we will use it. From the Clan Warriors, Raiders, and Volunteers, we will select twenty-five men for the team melee. We will train around shield movement, spear support, javelin throws, and breaking enemy formations. As for the joust, we will not enter it."
A few men looked disappointed for half a heartbeat, then remembered they were not mounted knights and recovered their intelligence. The joust belonged to men born with horses between their knees and squires polishing their armor. Battanians had other virtues. Most of them involved trees, arrows, shields, and letting the enemy die confused.
"The prize money is large," Arthur said. "But coin is not the only reason. If we perform well, the name of Battania will be heard by men who would otherwise never look at us. Lords do not hire what they cannot see. Merchants do not trust what they cannot name. We will make them see us."
That reached them better than any speech about honor. Gold made men eager. Recognition made them hungry. The Battanian Rangers had fought in forests, mud, and mountain passes. Now they had a chance to stand before the capital and prove they were not just another rough band from the North.
Training began the next morning and did not stop gently.
Arthur gave up rest and drove them hard from dawn until dusk. The melee group drilled shield wall advances, staggered retreats, spear thrusts through shield gaps, javelin volleys before contact, and quick shifts between loose movement and tight formation. They practiced against imaginary heavy knights, Dornish spearmen, freeriders, and undisciplined brawlers. Every opponent required a different answer. A stupid man called that overthinking. A dead man usually had.
The archers trained under Ena. She corrected stance, breathing, release timing, and the habit some men had of aiming with their hope rather than their eyes. The Old Wolf Warriors were already good, but city competition was not forest hunting. Targets did not run, but neither did they forgive nerves. Ena made them shoot standing, kneeling, after running, after holding a drawn bow too long, with noise around them, and while other men shouted insults. She had a talent for making improvement feel like punishment. Arthur approved.
The innkeeper complained twice about the courtyard being used like a battlefield. Arthur paid him once and stared at him the second time. The complaints stopped. Coin and implied violence were the two official languages of King's Landing.
For several days, the company lived inside a hard rhythm. Train, eat, repair gear, sleep, repeat. Armor straps were adjusted. Shield rims checked. Bowstrings replaced. Spears balanced. Blunted practice weapons split and were replaced. The attendants learned to keep water and bandages ready, because even training left bruises, cracked fingers, and bloodied noses.
Arthur personally oversaw most of it. He corrected footwork, shouted at men who broke formation, moved Raiders from one line to another, and tested different combinations until the melee team began to look like something deliberate. He was not a tourney knight, and he did not pretend to be one. But a melee was still a fight, and fights were won by rhythm, discipline, timing, and knowing when men began to panic.
Soon, payday arrived.
Arthur converted part of his system dinars into the gold dragons, silver stags, and copper pennies used in Westeros, then paid every soldier what he owed. Not late. Not short. Not with excuses. Men who risked their lives needed to believe their leader's hand was honest when it reached for the purse. Looking at the coins in their hands, the soldiers' faces softened with simple satisfaction. Loyalty bought with coin was not false. It was just honest about its roots.
"Today is payday," Arthur said from the steps, looking over the gathered men. "It is also the last day of rest before registration and the tournament begin. Drink, visit the markets, gamble if you are too stupid to keep your money, and look around the city if you must. But return before dark. No trouble, no drunken fights, no theft, no dead whores, no angry husbands, and no shame brought to Battania. If I have to pull one of you out of a cell, you will wish the city watch kept you."
The men answered together, loud enough to make the stable horses shift.
"Understood, Chief!"
They left in small groups, spilling into King's Landing with the joy of men who had been paid and temporarily released from discipline. Arthur watched them go with the resigned expression of a man who understood that freedom and stupidity often traveled holding hands.
When the courtyard had emptied, one man remained. Beland, captain of the Battanian Raiders, stood near the steps with his hands behind his back. He was young, taciturn, and steady, with a faint scar on his face from a wild boar's tusk. He had never been the loudest, never the most eager, never the most troublesome. That made him valuable.
Arthur walked down and patted his shoulder. "Why are you still here?"
Beland placed a hand over his chest. "Chief, my duty is to protect you. With the tournament approaching, we should remain vigilant."
Arthur looked at him for a moment, then made his face stern because warmth made soldiers uncomfortable. "This is King's Landing in daylight, Beland. Crowded streets, royal guards, city watch, and more witnesses than flies on shit. Go see the city."
"Danger does not wait for darkness."
"Neither does exhaustion. Go."
Beland hesitated, stubbornness sitting plainly on his face. Arthur sighed and pointed toward Ena, who leaned nearby with her arms crossed.
"Ena is here. Do you not trust her bow?"
Beland looked at Ena.
She smiled faintly. "Go. I will keep this troublesome Chief alive."
Beland finally bowed. "Then I leave him in your care. Please be careful, Chief. Miss Ena."
After he left, Ena watched him disappear through the gate. "He is loyal."
"Yes," Arthur said. "Too loyal, perhaps. That kind dies quickly if not watched."
"They trust you."
"They are paid to."
"No," Ena said, looking at him. "They are paid by you. That is different."
Arthur did not answer at once. The Battanian Rangers had begun as a system list, numbers, coin, and necessity. Somewhere along the road, that had changed. They had buried men together, marched through mud together, fought bandits together, and now they stood in a city that would happily swallow them if they grew careless. They were not just hired swords anymore. That made leadership heavier, naturally. Humans could not even make loyalty convenient.
Ena's expression turned playful. "And what about your personal guard? Does she get a day off too, generous Chief?"
Arthur looked at her. "Do you want one?"
"I want to see the city without chasing assassins, thieves, or your bad decisions."
"That narrows our options."
"Try."
Arthur laughed and offered his arm. "Then come. I will show you the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, in all its filth and false glory."
Neither of them carried visible weapons, though Arthur still hid a small knife because he was not suicidal. They changed into plain clothes and left the inn like two common travelers with more curiosity than sense. King's Landing swallowed them almost immediately.